The name alone made even the outsiders — Thea and Lyla — pause.
Arkham Asylum.
To say it was "famous" would be an understatement. "Infamous across the multiverse" might be a stretch, but "notorious across America"? Absolutely.
Arkham wasn't some tabloid legend or clickbait headline.
It was built on the backs of the mad — those who had lost their minds, and those well on their way — a monument to Gotham's never-ending descent into chaos.
For decades, it had stood beside Blackgate Prison as one of the city's proudest — or most horrifying — institutions. To Gotham's criminal underclass, they were twin finishing schools: one for brawn, one for broken minds.
A promising young thug could earn a Blackgate release certificate and an Arkham psychological-stability report — and with those two documents, they'd be welcomed into any major gang in the city. The Penguin, Falcone, Maroni — all the big names would line up to hire them.
If Blackgate was a combat academy, Arkham was a spiritual re-education center.
For the rough-and-tumble American psyche, fists were easy; mental corruption took true finesse.
Now, hearing that a large number of criminals had holed up in Arkham — and were using kidnapped civilians for some kind of physical or psychological "experiments" — even Thea felt a headache coming on.
She glanced at Barbara, who was staring grimly at the floor, and realized the fear wasn't just hers.
Without Batman — the big boss tank — their little side-team was being told to raid the hardest dungeon in Gotham.
Five mid-level heroes against a fortress full of lunatics.
Even Thea had to admit: that was terrifying.
But as the one who'd somehow been pushed into the role of team leader, she couldn't let the others see her flinch.
"Felicity," she said finally, "get the drones in the air. I want a live feed on this van's display."
"On it!" Felicity chirped, cheerful as ever — either too brave or too oblivious to be scared.
"Commissioner," Thea added, turning to Gordon, "you've got blueprints for Arkham, right? Let's map an approach route."
An approach route? Her internal voice groaned. Can't we just not go?
What she really wanted was to call Amanda Waller and request a Hellfire missile strike — one clean sweep, minimal fuss, job done.
But alas, she was now a "hero," a leading hero, which meant she couldn't openly suggest nuking a mental hospital.
She glanced hopefully at the others, waiting for someone to say, "Maybe we should just forget it."
But Gordon and Barbara — justice levels at 100 and 99 respectively — were never going to back out.
Gordon, eyes bright with purpose, returned a few minutes later with an enormous roll of blueprints.
Apparently, Arkham wasn't just a building. It was practically its own district. Ten hectares of cursed real estate — an administrative complex, hospital, prison, and lab all mashed together.
Thea stared at the map, mentally comparing it to her own university campus. "This place is huge," she muttered. The grounds alone were nearly 100,000 square meters; total construction area? Maybe double that.
"Okay, I'm at the front gate," Felicity's voice crackled through the radio.
Her drone feed appeared on the monitor, and everyone crowded around.
It was Thea's first time seeing Arkham with her own eyes — or through a camera lens, anyway.
At first glance, it didn't look horrifying. Just another piece of Gothic Gotham architecture: dark stone walls, broken towers, and that faint sense of hysteria that seemed baked into every brick of the city.
"Eh, doesn't look so bad," Felicity said blithely, which earned her three simultaneous stares of disbelief.
She toggled stealth mode, thermal vision, corner navigation — a dozen functions whirring quietly.
As the drone descended, the image sharpened: narrow courtyards packed with men in black uniforms, guns slung across their chests.
Five armed guards in one hundred square meters.
Within half a minute, three separate patrols crossed paths in the same corridor.
Felicity dared not drop the drone too low. Optical camouflage could fool eyes, but not ears — the hum of the rotors might still give them away.
She steered the drone along the outer walls instead, tracing the perimeter while the live thermal feed overlaid with Gordon's paper map. Together, they marked out possible entry points.
"There are too many people," Thea murmured.
From the screen alone, thousands of red heat-signatures glowed like a living sea. Even if only a tenth were armed, it was still far more than their little squad could handle.
"Wait. Go back a bit," Gordon said suddenly.
Felicity reversed the feed. Through one of the grimy windows, a faint silhouette flickered — distorted by dirty glass and the poor light.
"Can you zoom in?"
"Not really," Felicity replied. "This is a commercial drone, not military grade. But… we've got another trick."
Her fingers flew across the keyboard. "Facial recognition, courtesy of Queen Consolidated's surveillance suite. Developed for the Star City PD — until someone ruined the deal."
Her eyes darted briefly toward Selina.
Catwoman gave her a don't start look, cheeks tight with embarrassment. They'd agreed never to bring that up again.
Within seconds, the software cross-matched the blurry image with a clear photo.
"Match confirmed. Ninety-five percent similarity. Name's… Oswald Cobblepot. What kind of name is that?" Felicity frowned at the grotesque mugshot on screen.
Every Gotham native in the van stiffened.
In perfect unison, they said, "The Penguin."
Thea blinked. "That's it? That's the big bad you're scared of?"
She tilted her head, unimpressed. "He's just a guy. No powers, no training, short, walks with a limp. You're afraid of that?"
But as the drone continued its sweep, the true scope of the operation came into view.
Not only were Scarecrow's toxin specialists there — the same elite unit they'd already fought — but dozens of armed thugs in mismatched uniforms.
Gordon grimaced. "Those are Penguin's men. He used to control almost all of Gotham's underworld. Even after losing power, plenty of loyalists stayed with him."
The live feed showed it clearly: Arkham Asylum was no longer just a madhouse — it was a fortress, a nest of criminals and madmen working together.
And somewhere inside, behind those walls and shadows, the real mastermind was waiting.